The fabric has been passed down from thieves most brutal
Proudly held, and deemed exceptional
A blanket for The Beautiful
Yet no one dares speak of the glaring stain
A damning, foul stench remains
Though ignored, excused, and explained away
It's quite easy to see
Beneath creases and folds it tries to hide
As if an intended design
But when laid bare it testifies
And continues to bleed
Into more fibers; as it spreads
Unchecked, and to new sets of eyes
The stain's supposed to be
It's now what makes the fabric great
Frightening that some fight hard against
Efforts to eradicate the stain
And what it really means
Erasing it means violence; surgical precision
The fabric has to be destroyed
But who'll make the decision
To cut away the worst of it, and suture what remains?
What if it cannot be repaired, or be woven again?
Leaving it the way it is, means everyone will pay
For patching holes in fraying spots
Unraveling decay
By many, it's the stain and its ugliness that's enjoyed
For others, peace won't come until the whole fabric's destroyed
Its fibers, so contaminated; weakened by hate and lies
Compounded by sheer ignorance woven to emphasize
The need to cover guilt and shame above everything else
Who will breathe sighs of relief
When the fabric destroys itself?
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